


By Any Other Name

by Jemisard



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horrific car crash leads Eames to meeting a young man and changing his life.</p>
<p>Warning: Describes car crash injuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

The car hit the ground.

The front crumpled on impact. The driver was thrown forwards violently, head smashing into the steering wheel (airbag failing to deploy) and back into his seat again. The car kept going, flipping over to bounce and roll and then the world sped up again as it tumbled out of sight with the screeching of metal.

For a long moment he stood frozen to the spot.

Then reality kicked back in and he started scrambling down the slope towards the wreckage, pulling out his phone as he went, dialling for emergency services.

“ _Nine one one, what’s you emergency?_ ”

“Christ, there’s been a car crash. Bathelby road, Cherry Picker’s Corner, a convertible, I need, fuck, I need an ambulance.” He moved cautiously around the car. “There’s petrol all over the place, I can smell it.”

“ _Sir_?”

“Gas, bloody hell, the car’s leaking gas, what the fuck do I do, the driver’s in there?!” He could see the kid, twenty if he was a day, blood soaking his face and white...

He turned around, throwing up and dropping the phone. He could see _bone_ poking out of the skin.

“ _Sir? Sir?_ ”

He picked up the phone with a trembling hand. “There’s bones. Jesus Christ, I can see fucking bones poking out of him.”

“ _Were you in the car?_ ”

“No. No, I saw the crash. There’s just one guy in the car.” He looked back, swallowing down another bout of nausea. “Shit.” He looked awful. Maybe he was already dead.

The car creaked. So did the tree it had come to a stop against.

“Sweet fuck, the tree’s going to give. The car, the car’s against a tree and the tree’s starting to come loose.”

“ _Calm down sir, an ambulance is on the way, I’m dispatching emergency services to your location, they’ll be there withing ten minutes._ ”

“Ten minutes?!” That tree wouldn’t hold ten minutes. That tree was easing out of the ground by the second, buckling under the weight of the car.

He decided. “I have to get him out. Tell me how to not break his spinal column doing this.”

“ _Sir, just stay put, emergency services will be there_ -”

“He is going to _die_ , lady!” He moved closer to the car, leaning over the crumpled door and smelling blood and something kind of like vomit, only fresher and he had a horribly feeling it was bile from open injuries. “Fuck, fuck, I do not want to kill him, he’s a bloody kid.”

“ _Sir, try to move him as little as possible._ ”

The wood creaked again. 

“I wish that was an option, sweetheart.” He took a deep breath and leaned over, undoing the kid’s seat belt and easing it back off him. “I have to move him. What do I do?”

“ _Move his neck as little as possible_ ,” she eventually said. “ _Smooth movements, try not to jerk him._ ”

“Right, right. Hang on.” He tossed his phone a safe distance back and tried to pull open the door, but it was firmly twisted wreckage. “Shit. I’m so sorry if I cripple you or something.”

The kid didn’t respond, slumped in the seat still. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the battered and mangled chest and lifted.

The boy screamed. It was the most agonised sound that he had ever heard, the pain ripping through him as it was carried by that tortured sound. He could feel things moving under his hands, bones grinding and blood spurting up in a morbid fountain.

The car slid a bit more. It forced him into action, pushing with his legs and dragging them backwards as the chassis shuddered and creaked and the tree jerked down further.

His feet slid on the metal; his hands slipped, slicked with blood. He almost tumbled but managed to keep his footing, giving a last kick backwards as the tree gave and the whole mess of metal and wood and glass tumbled further down the hill.

He landed on his back, the driver safely cushioned against his body and going limp again.

Lying there, panting for breath, he listened to the grinding around of shrubs and rocks perishing and the wet wheeze of the ragged breathing of the boy.

“ _Sir? Are you there?_ ”

He reached blindly above his head for the tinny sound, pulling the phone back to his ear. “He’s still breathing.”

“ _Are you alright?_ ”

“No. Not by a long shot. But I’m in a better state than the other guy.” He looked down at the blood soaked head and slowly wriggled his way out from under him. “I’m going to try to get him conscious.”

He ignored anything else she said, putting down the phone and softly tapping one bloodied cheek. “Hey. Come on, mate. Wake up. Show me there’s someone still alive in there.”

When he got no response, he kept talking anyway, checking pockets quickly for identification. “I can understand why you don’t want to be awake. You’re fairly messed up there, I can see bones and shit, let’s not think about that too hard, but you should wake up before I feel obliged to start taking drastic action.”

He could feel where a wallet sat, but he wasn’t going to risk moving him and twisting his spine more than he had already. “Come on, kid.”

There was another wheezing breath, barely audible past the sirens starting to draw closer.

“Come on, what’s your name, at least? Wake up give me a name so I can stop calling you kid or jail bait in my head.”

“Art.”

His voice was a gurgle, but he _knew_ he had heard the word. “Art? Your name’s Art?”

Art didn’t reply. It didn’t really matter because the ambulance was pulling off the road, along the track into the quarry.

Then paramedics were there, pushing him back, asking him if he was injured because he was drenched with blood but it was all the kid’s - Art’s - and not his.

It was only after they bundled Art off in the ambulance that he thought to recover his phone and disconnect it.

*~*~*

He went to the hospital the next day.

He knew there was no point going sooner, no way that they were going to share information when the poor guy was still in surgery having bits of him put back inside, where they belonged.

No, yesterday, he had gone home, burned the shirt that was never going to have the blood removed from it, showered twice and then got blind drunk at a local bar on the story of the heroic rescue he had staged.

Now that he was actually at the hospital, cleaned up and sober and not really hung over anymore, he realised he hadn’t thought this through. Which wasn’t too worrying in and of itself, he had improvised before and arguably did his best work on the fly.

But all he had was a nickname and a good story that happened to be true.

“Can I help you?”

He smiled at the receptionist and decided to go with the honest truth and hope it worked. “Morning. I’m going to make a mighty strange request and I would be in your debt if you would hear me out before telling me to leave the hospital, okay?”

She gave him an amused and still doubtful look. “Okay,” she agreed. “What is this strange request?”

“Yesterday, there was an emergency brought in. Car crash, off Cherry picker’s corner. Young driver, name of Art.” He paused to see if she was following.

She nodded. “Go on.”

“I pulled him out of the car before it went down the hill. I just want to know how he is.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not next of kin...”

He gave her the puppy eyes, pouting ever so slightly and clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m not even asking for a room number or a surname. I just...” He dropped his gaze and sighed softly. “I was so scared I’d cripple him or something dragging him out of the car and his breathing was all _wet_ -”

She gave a defeated sigh. He didn’t look up, held the defeated, lost pose for a moment longer.

“Beauchamp, Arthur... He’s stable and out of intensive care,” she said quietly.

He looked up, smiling at her. “He’s okay?”

“He’s stable and resting,” she clarified.

“You are an angel,” he sighed. “An angel sent to alleviate the worries of one heroic rescuer.”

“If he wakes up, do you want to leave contact details? He’ll probably want to see the man who saved him.”

He grinned and grabbed a piece of paper, scribbling down his phone number and name.

“Just ‘Eames’,” she asked.

“Yup. Just Eames. You are a sweetheart.” He gave her a last smile and pressed his hands together in prayer once more just to make her giggle into her hands.

Then, he waited.

He killed time in the town, gambling, fleecing a few college students with more money than sense, waiting until the change of shift at the hospital and he could step in again, up to the reception desk and the new girl who smiled at him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Art Beauchamp, Arthur. Can you give me a room number?” The use of a casual nickname was calculated, it suggested familiarity.

“He’s in room two oh three, East Wing. He’s still sedated though.”

“Can I go up and just see him, see that he’s alive? The head knows but the stomach keeps churning every time I think about it.”

“Sure.” She nodded to the elevator. “Second floor.”

“Thank you.” He headed off, calm and every bit entitled to be going where he was.

He navigated around until he found the room. It was a room with three other beds, two of which were occupied by people, both of whom were currently asleep.

Bed three, by the window, had Art.

He was pale and looked like shit. His face was bruised, his hair greasy looking where the blood had been washed out but little more. He had tape stitches across his hair line. There was bandaging over his chest and neck where the collarbone had decided to escape and his arm was in a removable cast to let them get to the stitches currently wrapped up in bandaging.

Moving to the bedside, he looked down at Art’s battered form. “Hey. Me again. I’m not staying long, given how you’re sedated and vaguely lousy company like this, but who knows, maybe you can hear me. Just wanted to see how you’re doing after our adventure yesterday.”

The oxygen line helping Art breathe fogged slightly as he heaved a breath and made a small sound of discomfort.

“Well, guess I better get out of here. I’ll visit you tomorrow, you might be awake by then and you can tell me what the hell happened that you ended up wrecking such a nice convertible.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and left quickly.

There wasn’t much else to say to an unconscious man, really.

*~*~*

When Eames came by the next day, he just slipped past the front desk and headed straight up to the ward.

Bed one was empty, bed two had the privacy curtain drawn and bed four was still abandoned but bed three was propped up and the young man reclining in it and staring out of the window seemed to be alive.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully. “You look better.”

It took a moment for Art to react, shifting his whole body carefully to look over at Eames. His eyes were dark, one horrifically red stained by blood but the other was fairly nice and very sharp. “Are you talking to me,” he breathed out softly.

“Yep.” He sauntered over, hands in his pockets. “You don’t remember me, darling?”

Art’s brows pinched together, the expression older and sharper than the face making it. “Should I?”

“Well, maybe not. You weren’t really in much of a state for remembering, but believe me, I’m never going to forget you. First impressions and all.” He dragged over a chair and made himself at home. “Collarbone all back together?”

He took in the small details. The shallow breathing, he probably had bruised ribs, or maybe broken from the way he had wetly gasped at the crash site. The fact his hair was still lank but showed hints of curls at the very end. Frowning hurt, but he did it anyway.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m Eames.” He went to stick out his hand and reconsidered. “Maybe not with your hand like that.”

“And why should I know you... Eames?”

He grinned, liking the spark of fire in his gaze as his annoyance grew. “Well, we’ve been pretty close, you swooning in my arms, bleeding out all over my shirt...”

“You pulled me out.”

And _that_ was interesting. A little shock, but not gratitude, no softening of his expression. If anything, he shuttered off even more, face cold and dispassionate. It made Eames want to pick until he understood why. “Don’t jump to say thank you,” he grumbled.

“I wasn’t going to,” he snapped, only snapping didn’t work when you were breathless and gasping slightly. It was more just endearing.

“Any reason why not? Since I did pull you out of the wreck of your car after you crashed it, just before it tumbled down the hill to your inevitable demise. And I let you bleed on me.”

“You won’t get anything from my blood,” Art huffed, then reached to his chest, wincing. He clicked the button on the railing, slowly relaxing again.

“Didn’t think I would. Baby face like yours?” He chuckled at the glower. “That’d work better if you weren’t getting high off your painkillers.”

“Screw you,” Art breathed out. His eyes were falling shut. It was horribly, sickeningly endearing. Like a kitten trying to hiss and puff up.

“Not now, darling. You’re not in any fit state for that sort of activity.” He smiled again at Art’s heavy lidded scowl. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, you might be feeling more sociable when the pain’s down and the drugs are up.”

He suspected Art wanted to retort, but instead his eyes closed and then his head sank back into the pillows further. Eames stayed for a moment to see if he was really asleep and then headed out.

He went back to Cherry picker’s corner.

It was a notorious black spot for accidents. Cars going too fast, not expecting the hairpin turn, steep drop, it was a death trap even when the railing was in.

There hadn’t been a railing in the five years Eames had lived here.

He sat in the same spot and smoked a cigarette, staring at the bloodstains in the dirt, the tape marking off the area are under investigation and the bright spray paint highlighting where the car had bounced, had skidded, had ended up.

Art had been really lucky not to be killed at the speeds he had to be going at.

He stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it onto the stain of blood. He didn’t want to sit here staring at it any longer. It was chilling, to think that someone had nearly died there, in his arms.

He decided to go back the next day and annoy Art some more. Maybe he’d be in a better mood for more morphine, food and a sleep.

Mind you, thinking on hospital food, he wasn’t so sure about that...

*~*~*

Which was why, the next day, he was there with some fruit and a single sunflower.

Art just raised an eyebrow at him, the gesture speaking volumes. “You brought me flowers.”

“A flower.” He set the bag on the visitor’s chair and stole an empty vase from bed four (still empty) to put the sunflower in. “Everyone likes sunflowers. They’re cheerful and you seem to need the cheer.”

“I don’t want to be cheerful,” he protested breathlessly, but Eames could see the slightly dimpling in his cheeks where he was trying not to smile.

“Come on, you’re alive, you’ve got drugs on demand, pretty nurses and a sunflower. That seems pretty sweet to me.” He set the sunflower where it could still get some light on its petals and leaves.

Art was quiet for a moment, just watching him. “I don’t remember your name.”

“Eames,” he said cheerfully. “You weren’t in a good state yesterday, I didn’t expect you to remember.”

“Just Eames?”

“Yep. Just Eames.” He grinned at Art.

Art smiled back slightly, looking horribly young. 

Eames hoped like hell he wasn’t a minor, because he’d feel incredibly guilty about that.

“Thank you.”

“It’s just a sunflower,” he pointed out.

“No.” He shook his head slightly, wincing and laying back into the pillows. “Not for that. For dragging me out of the car. I must have sounded pretty ungrateful before. Yesterday, I didn’t feel very lucky.”

He hummed and took a seat. “World of hurt will do that.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Yeah, it will.”

Eames put his feet on the bed railing and starting peeling an orange. “Hungry?”

“Not really. The food in here isn’t great.” He didn’t open his eyes, staying where he was in the pillows.

“Like oranges?”

Art finally opened his eyes to look. Eames grinned at him and presented him with a segment. “Since your hand is going to be stuck for a while. No peeling oranges until it heals.”

“Thank you.” He took the piece, nibbling it carefully, mouth bruised but at least not split. Because that would have _really_ sucked.

Eames ate the next segment himself, savouring the sweetness.

“I’m going to recover, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But I have a vested interest in seeing you do it. You were sort of bleeding out in my arms a couple of days ago.”

The reminder made Art flinch slightly, looking away.

Eames kept breaking the orange into segments. “Your family on the way down here?”

“No.” Art didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t have any family to contact.”

“Bugger. Sorry to hear it.” He waved another orange segment under Art’s nose, making him peek out from his lashes and bruises.

“Thanks.” He took the piece to eat.

Eames smiled and let him have his silence for now. Tomorrow, he’d work on him again tomorrow.

*~*~*

The next day, Eames killed the morning by wandering along Bathelby road and then the park, thinking to himself about life, the universe and Art Beauchamp.

When he came in, he brought two oranges and another sunflower to join the first in the vase. Art wasn’t really any more open than he had been the day before, but they shared the oranges and Eames talked about the town and how treacherous the corner was that Art had managed to crash off.

The next day, just to liven things up, he brought raspberries with his sunflower and they shared the punnet resting in Art’s lap while they talked about England. Eames had moved over here four years ago, but his accent wasn’t inclined to make the move with him and the Americans found it charming.

Art didn’t find it charming. Art thought it was amusing that Eames wasn’t adapting and blending in with the new situation. Eames didn’t correct him on it

And somehow, a week had passed and seven sunflowers filled the vase and Art was starting to look healthier. He was still pale and slight, but Eames had come to accept that was just what he looked like. The bruises were still vivid, but the puffiness was going down and the surgery wounds were starting to close up.

On day ten, the stitches on his collarbone were taken out and the area closed up with some liquid stuff. Eames probably should’ve been made to go, but Art hadn’t said anything and the doctor didn’t make him go.

On day fourteen, Eames arrived at the hospital with a sunflower and raspberries and found Art’s bed made with bags on top of it.

He sat in his usual chair and waited.

Finally, a hand touched his shoulder. “Eames?”

Art was dressed. He wore slightly too big jeans and tee, his trainers quiet on the lino.

“Hello, darling,” Eames said softly. “They sending you home, then?”

“I’m being discharged. I have to check in with a doctor in two weeks to have my hand reviewed.”

“You’re not going to stay in town for that, are you?”

Eames couldn’t say exactly what had clued him in on it, but he had known that Art wouldn’t stay any longer than he had to, meaning as soon as he was out of hospital, he was going to vanish into the big wide unknown out there.

“No,” Art agreed eventually. “I’m not.”

“Then I better be a gentleman and help you down to the bus station to get your ticket. Or at least to reception to get discharged.” He stood, hefting Art’s bag over one shoulder. “Here.” He held out the sunflower to him.

“Why sunflowers?”

Eames shrugged as they headed out for reception, to get him discharged. “I dunno. Everyone likes sunflowers, right? They’re cheerful.”

“Like you.”

“Like me,” he agreed. “Except I’m not all cheerful, I just like to smile a lot. I notice things.”

“Do you,” Art asked absently.

“Like the fact that your licence is forged.”

Silence hung heavily between them.

“And that you didn’t crash by accident,” Eames continued after a moment. “You accelerated into that corner, I heard the engine before you went overhead. You were trying to crash.” He opened the door for Art.

Art just stared at him, looking torn between anger and fear. “How-”

“You were too angry at being saved. You weren’t expecting to get away from that crash. You planned on dying.” He let the door close, walking closer to Art.

“What do you want,” Art whispered. “If you say anything...”

“You’ll be busted for the stolen identity and probably locked up until you’re deemed not to be a danger to yourself anymore. Yeah. I worked that out.” He looked down at the smaller boy, still wondering what demons had driven him to what he did.

“What will your silence cost? I have money, I can pay you-”

“I don’t want your money, Art.” He felt slightly hurt that the boy thought that. “I didn’t spend this time with you to get your money. I want you to promise me that you’ll never do it again. Whatever it was that seemed so goddamn terrible, it wasn’t. You won’t do that again.”

“That’s... it? Just a promise?” Art seemed stunned.

Honestly, Eames was a tiny bit shocked at himself as well. He had half thought of at least extracting an awkward kiss and blustering upset for his silence. “Just a promise, darling.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, really.” He grinned. “Though if you keep pushing I might think of something else I might ask from you...”

“Okay, no, good, I... It was a dumb thing to do. I know that.” He looked away. “How long have you known?”

“First time I visited you.” He playfully flicked some loose curls back from his face. “Come on, smile, Art. You got a second chance at your dreams.”

“I don’t have dreams,” Art said softly, jaw snapping shut the next moment.

“Everyone has dreams, darling. Even if they’re a little hazy and incomplete. Go out and find them.” Eames wrapped an arm around Art’s shoulders and started guiding him out. “And if things get on top of you... Go out, drink a lot and be outrageous. Don’t drive your car off a cliff. I might not be able to get there in time to haul you out again.”

Art smiled slightly. “My knight in paisley and corduroy, huh?”

“Lighter than armour plating,” Eames quipped. “Though I wouldn’t mind a bit of jousting with you, if you get my drift.”

“Mister Eames, I’m not that sort of boy,” Art replied dryly.

“Ah well. Worth a try.” He paused next to the desk, letting his arm slip down. “I hate good byes.”

“Me too,” Art said.

“Don’t forget your promise, right?” He set Art’s bag down. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me with a lot of options, I suspect.”

“Should do.” He grinned. “Stay safe, Art.” He turned and headed for the door before he thought of one last thing. “Is Art really your name?”

He nodded, smiling finally. “Yeah. It is.”

“Huh.” He grinned and gave a small salute. “Good luck.”

He turned and left and thought that would be the last he would ever see of Art.

*~*~*

But it wasn’t.

It was eight years later when he was contacted about a job where they needed a forger of a different kind, of the kind he had learned to specialise in. 

He was in Venezuela, in a hotel lobby where he waited for his contact.

It was not his contact that he saw, but the pale, drawn face with huge dark eyes and the tiny scars at his hairline and over his hand.

The suit was new, sure. All polished perfection and neatness, even in the heat. His hair was slicked back, hiding what Eames knew was unruly curls under a layer of gel. He was older and sharper but he was still the same.

And clearly, Eames himself was similar enough, because those dark eyes were going wide with shock as he found himself smiling widely.

“You must be Eames, then.” He forced his attention to the other man, a tall and broad blond man with pale eyes. “Nash said you had an interesting taste in shirts. I’m Dominic Cobb, this is my partner-”

“Dom...” The young man whispered, almost trying to stop his partner.

“Arthur Darling.”

“Darling?!” Eames looked to Art, his smile growing impossibly wider.

Arthur said nothing, but the pink on his cheeks said it all for Eames.


End file.
